Champion
by DasCheesenborgir
Summary: ...


**This came out a bit sooner than expected... **

**So, genuine continuation of first fic this time. Well, prequel. Same thing.**

**I'm gonna give a bit of warning before I begin, I'm not very knowledgeable at all when it comes to the more technical aspects of 40k fluff- most of what I've written comes from stuff I've managed to pick out of Lexicanum and some Dawn of War videos, a little bit from Spess Mehreen. Don't be surprised if some bits seem far-fetched, but I did what I could. **

**That goes double for The Elder Scrolls- I dunno if I was looking in the wrong place or what, but I just could not find any concrete info on the military diversity/strength of the Empire and Stormcloaks in Skyrim. **

**If you don't mind that though, do try to enjoy. **

**Special thanks to sequestration13 and EroSempai for beta-reading.**

** Hope you folks like Manowar :)**

**0-0-0**

**_Here our soldiers stand from all around the world,  
Waiting in a line, to hear the battle cry.  
All are gathered here, victory is near…_**

**0-0-0**

He knelt by the water's side, soft waves flickering orange splashing against his ceramite boots. In the distance, Solitude burned. Great pillars of flame and smoke clashed with the star-streaked night sky, the stone shelf that held up the city crumbling and shaking with every flaming stone hurled into its bulk.

The great boulders smashed into the city, crushing throngs of their carved ilk as they tore great rents into stone streets and buildings.

For the hours he had waited by the seaside that night, Mortis could not help but think of the great drop pods he and his Brothers sometimes used, the jagged stone heads at the forefront of the blazing flame trails through the sky occasionally taking the boxy, metal edged form of the machines.

He could almost feel their presence again, the eager moments in the Thunderhawk right before battle, the clashing of their shoulderpads as the passenger bay was rocked with anti-air fire, the steely gaze of Zacharias before he snapped on his helmet, Otho standing across from him, ever vigilant and-

A creak, followed by a searing _whoosh _to his side and then the water flared to life again, another boulder sent hurtling into the Empire's last bastion in Skyrim.

As the shore lit up, he caught a glimpse of the snarling reflection of his helmet- his _face_- in the glossy obsidian surface of the blade Ulfric had presented to him on the eve of battle. Forged and tempered from ebony, it was a simple yet majestic weapon, beautifully balanced and razor sharp. He had yet to consecrate it with the blood of his enemies, but the blade felt so... _naturally _in his hand. Though of far superior make and blessed by centuries of warfare, even the chainsword he had wielded in the service of the Imperium did not command the sheer effortlessness and fluidity of this weapon.

He took up the damp white cloth that lay beside him on the shore, running it down the length of the claymore for the fifth time in less than two minutes- he was growing restless.

Dawn was yet just a few more hours away, and Galmar insisted that they would need to wait for every man and woman, every sword and shield in the Stormcloak army to mass by the base of Solitude before launching the assault.

_"Will they be ready?"_

_"They have to be. They know what's at stake."_

Of that he had no doubt, but the question remained as to how willing they were to die for that. They were motivated, zealous, but they were not the same veterans he had fought beside, tempered by decades and centuries of war. But this was no time for doubts.

Mortis' prayer book beckoned to him, and he answered with fervor swelling in his twin hearts.

_Two more hours, _he thought. Two more hours and then he would charge the slopes leading up to the cesspool of heresy that rested atop the peaks. He cracked open the small tome after gently running his thumb over the battered Aquila on the cover, closing his eyes as he let the High Gothic script flood his conscience and the faint incense of candles lit long ago drift back into his nostrils.

_O Emperor, in wrath rejoicing at bloody wars… _

**0-0-0**

**_…The Sound will fill the hall,  
Bringing Power to us all,  
We alone are fighting for Battle that is true…_**

**0-0-0**

"…fierce and untamed!"

_" -_whose mighty power doth make the strongest walls from their foundations shake!"

The strike cruiser hangar boomed and echoed with a hundred voices, righteous fury beating in the hearts of each and every invigorated Sword Brother that knelt in fealty to the God Emperor.

"All-conquering Master of Mankind, be pleased with this war's tumultuous roar!"

Only the baritone voice of the legendary Emperor's Champion stood alone, the faceless and now nameless warrior leading the chapter in prayer.

"Delight in swords and fists red with alien blood, and the dire ruins of savage battle!" Mortis' grip tightened around his chainsword as he yelled out the verses alongside his brothers, howling in tandem with the bulky figures of Chaplain Otho and Castellan Zacharias to his sides.

Nobody knew the Champion's name or his face, and it had never been recorded again since he had forsaken his personal glory and honor to uphold the Emperor's instead. The Champion was no longer a mere individual, but a manifestation of the His will itself, a sentinel, a guardian to his brothers, swift and invincible death to the enemies of the Imperium.

Otho told him it was not always this way- long before Mortis had even been born, the tradition was much more different.

He spared a glance up at the titan of Champion at the forefront of the assembled army, the Emperor's golden light itself seemingly radiating from his death black armor. A beacon of hope shining in the grim darkness of the galaxy. Perhaps he too, would someday bear the same mantle- but that would not be anytime soon, and he mentally scolded himself for letting his mind wander so easily.

Not that he could help it, it had always been a bad habit of his to do so in both times of duress and meditation.

_A little thought never hurts once in while- so long as you remember your place as the Emperor's servant, you shall be invulnerable to the foul whispers of the Warp. _

Only when Mortis glanced over to Otho did he realize that the sermon was concluding.

"And rejoice in furious challenge, and avenging strife, whose works with woe embitter human life!"

_"Ave Imperator!" _The hangar boomed to life once more as Mortis thundered out the final lines with his Brothers.

Like a great ocean wave, the mass of black and white armored figures rose, fervor flowing through veins as their grips tightened around their weapons.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as their balding Crusade Marshal, his face scarred by ages of war disappearing as he snapped on his helmet and strode aboard a nearby Thunderhawk.

This was it. The empty bellies of the great black ships beckoned, and the Sword Brethren filed in, the snarling faceplates of their helmets reflecting the eager and tempered rage that boiled beneath the armor. The Emperor's Champion, still glowing with holy fire, strode past the open bay where Mortis stood, and stepped dutifully into the last dropship two spaces down- the last man to board, first onto the battlefield.

While Mortis was secretly disappointed that he would not have the honor of fighting alongside the Marshal or Emperor's Champion in the first wave, he was confident that sooner rather than later, they would all be shedding blood alongside each other.

Otho said nothing to Mortis like he usually did, as grim and determined as the stoic skull helm he wore. He did not need to say anything. As they stood across from each other in darkness of the passenger bay and the engines lurched to life, the glance the Chaplain gave him said all he needed.

_Remember the Emperor, remember His sacrifice, and may we be so fortunate to return the favor for Him._

**0-0-0**

**_…We own the right to live the fight, we're here for all of you,  
Now swear the blood upon your steel will never dry!  
Stand and fight together beneath the battle-sky!_**

**0-0-0**

The blade effortlessly broke the surface of the shoddy leather armor, splitting through flesh and bone and sending the Imperial soldier crashing to the ground in a tattered heap.

Less than a second later, his comrade met a similar fate, and the Imperial line was broken. With a bellowing war cry, Mortis leapt into the fleeing crowd of leather-clad soldiers, mighty ebony shearing through packs of meat and bone, splashes of hot crimson slapping against the firelit stone road.

_"Fall, heretics! Despair against the might of the one and True Emperor!" _

The cry was echoed behind him, soon followed by a howling orchestra of frenzied screams.

_"For Talos!" _

_ "For Skyrim!" _

The Stormcloaks fell upon the exposed backs of the scattered Imperials with brutal abandon, battleaxes and swords plunging through skulls and limbs. As Mortis savagely bisected an officer that had the courage to face him, he caught Galmar out of the corner of his eye, the general's grizzled face twisted in apoplectic rage as he swung his axe in wide arcs.

The air shifted around Mortis and was soon blasted forth in a violent cyclone of razor wind, a shout like thunder from the sky sending a group of archers tumbling to the scorched earth from the ramparts. Ulfric did not necessarily share the martial prowess of his top general, but he certainly made up for it in his mastery of the… repulsive, if powerful, tongue of the dragons.

He was momentarily blinded by a flash of orange, a fireball feebly breaking into a weak blossom against his armor. Over the screams of now burning soldiers, he heard one word that made his blood rise with both hatred and anticipation:

_"Thalmor!" _

His vision had just barely cleared before he saw the filthy alien, clad in dark hooded robes and cowering behind a wall of Imperial shields. So the elves finally showed their wretched hides; he was wondering when they would crawl out from their cesspit hiding holes to defend their blasphemous claims to supremacy.

A shriek of rage bellowed out of his voxcaster as he tore out of the fiery quagmire the coward had led them into, arrows glancing harmlessly off of the scarred ceramite skin of his armor but finding their places in the Stormcloaks' throats and bellies with terrifying accuracy.

_"My armor is contempt!"_

Torrents of fire slammed against the thick armor of his chestplate and helmet, the Xenos' foul sorceries doing little more than fueling his righteous fury and propelling him closer and faster.

_ "My shield is disgust!" _

The screen of flame faded as he crashed into the hastily organized Imperial phalanx, his sheer bulk splintering their wooden shields and flattening the troops behind them while his sword arm lashed out and rent heretic after heretic limb from limb.

_"My sword is hatred!"_

With a feral snarl, he plunged the tip of his blade, coated with the blood of unbelievers, through the abdomen of the dumbfounded Thalmor Justiciar, a thick spray of viscera erupting out of the creature's mouth.

_ "In the Emperor's name, let none survive!" _

Mortis ripped the claymore free of his target out the side of the witch's stomach before sending the heel of his boots rocketing into his ribcage and smashing him off of his feet in a fountain of gore. Pathetic animals they were, and the fact that the so-called Empire dared to surrender to them only further showed their weakness.

Cheers and rejuvenated bellows for vengeance followed in the Black Templar's bloody wake, a flood of fresh soldiers taking to his side.

_"Rally to Stormblade!" _

_ "Forwards! Gut those heathenous elves_ _alive!" _

Striding through the flames with furious slashes that cut apart Imperial soldiers, Mortis gleefully led the charge, the faintest memories of glorious victories and holy crusades flowing through his veins.

**0-0-0**

**_Many stand against us but they will never win,  
We said we would return and here we are again!  
To bring them all destruction, suffering, and pain,  
We are the hammer of the gods, we are thunder, wind, and rain!_**

**0-0-0 **

Searing lasfire and bolter shells filled the choked air, wild embers and furious infernos ravaging the shattered cityscape.

_"Forwards you dogs! To Victory!" _

Emphasizing her cry with an expertly aimed bolt shell and splattering the brains of one more heretic against the bloodied snow, Commissar Falken leaped down from her jagged perch and surged forth with the ranks of haggard guardsmen. Though her cry was clearly directed towards them, Mortis and his Brothers eagerly added their voices to the response.

_"FOR THE EMPEROR!" _

Stomping over bloody, snow dusted corpses, the Sword Brethren rushed into the lead, stray shrapnel and return fire from the thin ranks of cultists glancing off of blessed ceramite.

The steady purr of Mortis' chainsword evolved into a gleeful shriek as it mockingly echoed the shrill screams of pain of the heretic he buried it into, tainted muscle and sinew splitting apart under churning teeth.

His Brothers followed suit, power weapons flashing with holy light as they cleaved into the corrupted ranks with brutal sweeps.

The broken masses of feeble heretics were further thinned as a wall of scorching, nearly point-blank lasfire slammed into them. Mortis added a blanket of plasma from his pistol to the volleys of hell, twisted visages and blighted torsos melting, exploding into steaming chunks of meat.

Rusted bayonets were thrust into the bellies of those that still stood, ceramite clad boots crushing the traitors feebly cowering beneath their weight.

The cultists shrieked and whooped as their broken corpses were hurled down from the blackened and burning trenches they had occupied, melting beneath the furious hate of those faithful to the Imperium.

_"Redeem them with sword and fire!" _Bellowed Otho with his gleaming crozius held high, resuming the unstoppable charge.

As though in direct response, a pair of stormtroopers rushed to the front and bathed the routed enemy in a sea of holy promethium, their screams of terror and pain mixing with the not-so distant din of cannons and whirring chainblades.

The two guardsmen led the advance down the narrow, war torn street, their weapons melting the snow and cleansing the cowards as they fled.

"Burn, heretics! Burn!"

In the times of war, it was the faithful and courageous that endured- Mortis was not surprised that the only guardsmen left after almost two months of grinding warfare with the Black Legion were the most driven and brave men and women he'd had the honor of serving beside.

The frenzied battle cries of the leading stormtroopers abruptly came to a violent end as a storm of bolter fire shredded through them and a nearby Initiate who had been too slow. Righteous fury rose in Mortis' chest as he heard the howls of bloodlust and jeers amplified by vox casters across the fiery roads- Traitor Marines.

_"Do not falter! Forwards! The Emperor is with us today!" _

Castellan Zacharias' cry was echoed by Otho, then Falken, and finally Mortis as he surged to the front with them, the clatter and thundering of boots signalling that the rest of the Imperial forces following their lead.

The Traitors responded with a mixture of boltfire and cries of their own.

_"Come, Loyalist Dogs! Let us see your Corpse Emperor protect you here!" _

The Black Legionnaires had positioned themselves on the fifth floor of a collapsed building, its gutted innards held back by a mountain of rubble and still intact walls leading up to their barricades- the casualties the Imperials took as they stormed the hill were horrendous.

Streaks of Warp-tainted plasma arced across the reddened skies, felling scores of Black Templar Initiates and Sword Brethren alike as the Traitors concentrated their fire on the greatest threats, while streams of bolter shells blasted gaping holes in ranks of guardsmen.

Mortis snarled in contempt as a blast of purple plasma tore a hole out of one of his comrades in a cloud of melted flesh, his charred, armored bulk tumbling down the hill. Mortis roared a challenge towards the hunkered Black Legionnaires, vowing to avenge his fallen Brother.

_"Filthy cowards!" _He yelled over the deafening din of fire, as he continued to rush up the blood-slicked slopes. _"Show me what passes for fury amongst your corrupted ilk!" _

His voice boomed out over the unending storm of fire and pain, and he heard the mocking and guttural response echo out as the wall of ordnance only thickened.

_"Fearsome words for those who bow to a rotting corpse! Now show us actions!" _

They did indeed; the slope thundered with roars of anger and pain, the stomping of heavy boots as the forces of the Imperium cascaded upwards, faith and fury driving them over the corpses of their fallen comrades.

Mortis caught his first glimpse of the enemy as he crested over the steaming corpse of an Initiate gutted by plasma and bolter fire; he saw only their screaming helmets and the twisted bronze horns that rose out from them, but it was all he needed. He sent torrents of azure bolts up the cracked hills, lasbolts and bolter shells soon following behind as his comrades came within a decent firing range.

He roared his approval as a Traitor screamed in pain, the corrupted Astartes' armor alight with weapon impacts as he was literally sheared in half by an immense volume of bolter and lasfire. Another two were set ablaze in a sphere of angry hellfire, and yet one more melted as Mortis doused him with plasma bolts.

More and more black armored bodies tumbled down the hills as the Imperial forces crested the bloody slopes, the baritone voice of the Traitor leader dripping with malice as he inspired his troops.

_"To arms Brothers! The Blood God cares not where the blood flows from; ours or theirs, mighty Khorne shall feast this day!" _

Any thoughts of holding back by the enemy force were incinerated, drowned in a flood of bloodlust as the Chaos Space Marines leapt from their perches. Their black and gold armor seethed and thirsted for the hot blood of their Loyalist brothers to anoint their thick hides, their possessed weapons screaming for death as they charged.

_"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the skull throne!" _

A furious melee erupted as Traitor and Loyalist clashed on the burning slopes, praises to the Emperor against bloodthirsty roars, shrieking of chain weapons and soldiers, men and women torn to pieces in a maelstrom of destruction.

Mortis growled out catechisms of hate as he guided the screaming edge of his chainsword through the stomach of a foul traitor, a shower of sparks and viscera splashing against his armor in response. _"This is the judgement of the righteous, betrayer!" _

The fallen Astartes barely managed to moan out a gurgled rebuttal before Mortis' boot caved his wretched skull in.

A pull on the trigger, and another snarling helmet was splattered into a molten mess.

The ground shook as a guardsman detonated his belt of grenades on his dying breath, splattering a squad of heretics into chunks of steaming flesh and taking his killer to the grave with him.

Further up the hill, Zacharias was engaged in a deadly and frantic duel with a Chaos Champion, the corrupted Marine's warped visage twisted in a feral smirk of glee as their blades danced.

Another pair of cultists fell, pulped by Mortis' chainsword before the shriek of blades reached a crescendo as he brought up his weapon and caught the descending head of a chainaxe, fountains of embers flayed off as the screaming weapons clashed.

The chaos around him became drowned out as he locked gazes with the sneering visage of the Traitor's helm.

_"I have fought and killed for ten millennia," _growled out the Legionnaire. _"I have felled scores of your kind and witnessed the fall of the Imperium with my own eyes!"_

Mortis, grunting with exertion as he began to feel his boots slipping back against the brutalized rockcrete ground mustered up enough strength the spit back a response.

"Empty bravado alone will not save you, Traitor. So long as I and the servants of the Emperor still draw breath, the Imperium shall never fall!"

The Chaos Marine let loose a deafening cackle as his ruby eyepieces came alight with daemonic flame, his chainaxe breaking loose of its duel with Mortis' chainsword. Hurled off balance by the sudden shift, Mortis was not able to pivot in time to avoid the heavy boot that rocketed into his chestplate.

_"The favor of the Dark Gods flows through me! Your corpse Emperor is nothing, Loyalist!" _

For all the Traitor's boasts however, it turned out that all his experience and favor did as much against a wall of bolter shells as anything else. His tattered frame crumpled to the soaked earth in a heap, and the remaining sounds of battle died with him.

Otho holstered his still smoking storm bolter on his waist as he strode over and held his hand out to Mortis' prone form. He gratefully accepted it, speaking his thanks as he was hoisted up.

His hearts still beat at a lightning pace, his mind racing to comprehend how close had been to death. If Otho had acted just moments later...

He cast aside such useless ponderings, gazing out towards the ruins of the city. Already he could see the lines and swarms of the forces of Chaos massing further down the street, maddened cries for blood and war echoing out. It was quite a distance away though; he was certain that they would be engaged in bloody battle soon, but he and his Brothers would be fools to abandon their high ground and take them head on. And so they would wait, at least until further reinforcements arrived.

The heavy thudding of boots signalled Zacharias arrival, his black armor splattered with corrupted blood and sporting a new gash along the gleaming skull on his chestplate. He said nothing as usual, staring out towards the battlefield and no doubt coming to the same conclusion Mortis had; he always was like that, level-headed and calm, his logic trumping his fiery zeal. While Mortis himself and many others found his command questionable at times, it was clear that he was a competent and deadly leader.

Their moment of silence was broken as Falken spoke up from behind.

"The Emperor smiles upon us today," she said, her voice hoarse from a combination of screaming praises to the Emperor and years of smoking lho sticks. Mortis followed Otho's gaze over to Falken, who, despite having lost her cap and much of the stitching in her black coat, looked no worse for wear. "Many of my men yet live and the foul heretics have been driven from this position."

"The Emperor smiles upon His servants everyday," responded Otho. "And I dare say that barring my own Brothers, I had the honor of serving alongside some of the greatest of His warriors today."

Falken composed herself as best she could, straightening her scarred face and pulling her dirt streaked blonde hair into a bun before responding.

"You praise does us proud, my Lord, but I fear the worst has yet to pass."

Indeed, the taking of the hill was yet only a bloody scuffle in comparison to the apocalyptic battle that raged in all sectors of the ruined city, Imperial forces hacking and grinding through hordes of cultists and Marines towards the centre. Mortis instinctively cast his gaze towards the great pillar of white light further down the boulevard, what was undoubtedly the source of these traitors lying barely a few miles away.

This would be it, he realized. They were so close now, at the very tip of the spear that would drive into the wretched heart of Chaos and gut it apart from the inside.

"The Traitors will fall," assured Mortis. "They cannot stand against the might of the righteous."

As if to emphasize his point, one of the surviving stormtroopers sprinted up the hill, breathless as a rapidly spreading wave of cheers replaced the solemn silence that had occupied the space earlier. Though his face was concealed by the gas mask he wore, his relief was evident enough.

"M-my Lords," he stammered out, "General Hauser's division, they've-"

He was cut off as a garbled and amplified voice blared out across the battle-torn boulevard below them above the growling of engines, thundering out like a choir of angels.

_"Traitorous filth, hear my words! The Immortal Emperor Himself has given us His favor this day, and He shall crush you beneath his Hammer! His Champions shall rend your wretched bodies asunder, and we shall grind you to dust beneath our treads!" _

Indeed, a literal wall of Imperial vehicles were rolling down the avenue, the thick hides of tanks sparking as bullets and bolt shells glanced off, a single, mighty Baneblade leading the charge with fervent yells booming out of a vox caster.

The entire hill came alive with voices as Astartes and guardsman echoed the battlecry that sounded out along the line of Imperial vehicles down the road.

_"FOR THE EMPEROR!" _

**0-0-0**

**_There you wait in fear, with swords in feeble hands,  
With dreams to be a King, first- one should be a man!  
I call them out and charge them all with a life that is a lie,  
And in their final hour they shall confess before they die!_**

**0-0-0 **

The Thalmor soldier's thin plates of drab green armor did nothing to protect her as she fell to the stone ground of the ramparts in two halves. Foul Xenos and the Traitors that obeyed them split against Mortis' charge, heads and limbs arcing through the blood choked air as he stormed along the walls above Castle Dour.

"Cowards!" He bellowed as a trio of archers stumbled away from him helplessly. "Stand fast and fight, Traitors!"

A pathetic _clang _rang off his back as an officer feebly attempted to strike at his flank.

The man had no time to scream as his head was cleanly severed from neck.

A pair of Thalmor behind him soon followed suit, the last one's broken body hurled over the ramparts as Mortis smashed his armored fist into the alien's chest.

A chorus of cheers rose up from the burning courtyard as the Xenos sailed down, hoarse throats echoing above the din of clashing steel.

_"Stormblade!" _

_ "Butcher the knife-ears!" _

Mortis growled, more in frustration than anything as he leapt forth and thrust his blade through the back of one of the fleeing archers. The battle fire in his belly began to wane quickly, the eagerness to shed heretic and alien blood dissolving as he remembered that he fought not against hordes of bloodthirsty Traitors alongside the courageous forces of the Imperium.

_Undisciplined, _he thought. Not the Imperials, the Stormcloaks- rugged and foolhardy at best, bloodthirsty barbarians at worst. He would have thought that the fact that many were ex-Legion themselves would mean that they would be more professional, but no such luck. Many commanders in the Guard complained the same of his Brothers, charging, blinded by faith, into enemy lines, but even they knew to maintain proper formation and follow orders.

And these were not his Brothers, nor were they any closer to any true Loyalist he had fought beside.

He trampled over the next archer and smashed into a hastily assembled line of the Xenos, battering aside green armored bodies with his bulk as he brought his weapon crashing down upon the spine of their fleeing leader.

They too followed the earlier elf he had killed, bloody corpses crunching as the smacked against the firelit stone in the courtyard.

_"Yeah! Tear 'em apart!" _

He was a fool to have ever thought they were anything like the Imperial Guard. They had the drive, the motivation, the blazing, if misguided, courage to uphold the supremacy of humanity- but that was where the similarities ended.

Mortis snarled as he hacked apart a pair of footsoldiers, the vile memory of one particular example further fouling his thoughts.

It had been during the extermination campaign in the Reach, at one of the last bastions of Forsworn resistance they were rooting out.

It fuelled his anger as he tore into another group of archers, lithe and muscled limbs coming apart in sprays of dark scarlet fluid.

He still remembered the image, the large and burly primitive in the dirty blue garb of his uniform, the flames of the burning camp dancing off of his skin, his smooth and snakelike face growling with twisted pleasure…

_"Heretics! Cleanse and purge!" _

Another pair of elves dead, empty eyes staring into the burning sky.

He had executed the rapist then and there, first crushing the sobbing witch he had pinned to the bloodied ground beneath a mighty boot, before dragging him out into the open and hacking off his head publicly. When he had learned from his assigned lieutenant that the 'man' he caught was not the only one, he had been incensed, demanding that all those guilty of heresy confess. Unsurprisingly, none had spoken up, and his order that the entire extermination battalion be decimated by their own had only been halted by Ralof.

Ralof. The name sounded bitter in his mind, for he had thought of all of his lieutenants, he would have understood most the necessity of such seeming brutality; but he did not, another bright eyed idealist too weak-kneed to fight for the Emperor.

Undisciplined, and heretical. How such filth managed to worm into the elite ranks of the Stormcloaks eluded him- in the Imperium they would have surely been cleansed in holy flame as any other heretic that indulged in the excesses of Slaanesh, not even the given the chance to fight in the lowliest of penal legions. But here, not only were they welcomed into the military with open arms, but _defended_, their superiors too short-sighted to deliver proper justice.

That particular battalion had been disbanded the moment he stormed back into Windhelm in a rage after the campaign, but he was certain that heretics and criminal scum still infested the ranks below.

_"They are broken, fleeing! Into the castle, brothers and sisters! It is time to cut the head off of the Legion itself!" _

Mortis flicked the blood from his blade as the last soldier on the ramparts fell in a pool of crimson.

This was not the Imperium, and these were not the valiant and honorable guardsmen that he had fought alongside.

The cheer they let out as he leapt down and landed with a thunderous crash, however, reminded him of his duty. He was not here to fight for the Imperium- here, he fought for humanity, however young and misguided they were.

The doors leading into the castle splintered under his heel, and he was immediately greeted by a torrent of sorcery. More Thalmor- he would revel in their deaths. Shielding his face with one arm, he rushed forth, bloody blade dancing with the light of fire held high, imagining he was fighting a war far more noble than the one he was.

**0-0-0**

**_Brothers everywhere,  
Raise your hands into the air!  
We're warriors, warriors of the World!_**

**0-0-0 **

The ground had been rent asunder, the earth itself bleeding blood red with the chaotic energies of the Warp. Smoke and embers coalesced with the flakes of tainted snow that drifted down, tracers, flame, and plasma gorging on armor and flesh.

The metal and meaty corpses of machine and man alike littered the scorched grounds surrounding what had once been a temple, marble shattered like dreams of a great empire.

The sinewy copper frame of a Bloodletter was sheared into a tattered mess as Mortis rammed his blade into its torso, its hellish visage contorted with rage.

_"Faith and Duty!" _

The Emperor's Champion barreled into a horde of the daemons, his titanic Black Sword alight with blessed azure lightning as he effortlessly battered aside the burning Hellblades of his enemies and ripped apart scores of the foul creatures.

_"Courage and Honor!" _The Sword Brethren followed the chant as they fought, bolt and plasma pistols blazing, chainswords whirring, power weapons flashing.

A deafening boom thundered across the city centre as the twisted metal chassis of a Defiler was torn apart in a cataclysmic storm of flame. The majestic hulk of Hauser's Baneblade rumbled, autocannons and bolters blazing with frightening precision as they gutted Traitors and daemons alike. Twin beams of spearing crimson light erupted from the lascannons at its sides, vaporizing a pair of Khorne Juggernauts. The boar-like daemons were blasted into clouds of ethereal flame, their rage-infused shrieks echoing across the burnt ground as they melted back into the Warp.

General Hauser's grizzled voice boomed out of the tank's vox caster as it grinded through the hordes of Chaos, screaming with fanatical rage as weaponfire raked blackened scores across the dull green hull of the tank.

A squad of Traitor Marines were incinerated in a sphere of blue fire, the plasma cannons of distant Leman Russ tanks red hot with fervor as they spat superheated death into the ranks of the enemy.

"Brother!"

Otho's warning snapped him out of his reverie, and he swiftly punished a traitor Astartes' error in mistaking his awe for complacency. The chainsword shrieked with gleeful vengeance as it sheared through a brick of armor and sinew. A trio of plasma bolts finished the job, silencing the Marine's gurgled screams and turning him into a heap of slag.

Otho's crozius, burning with golden light caught his gaze as he brought it crashing into the armored bulk of a Khorne Juggernaut, splitting its hide open.

The temple grounds fell silent as the daemon's bellows of pain died with it, sounds of battle growing distant as Hauser poked his balding head out of the Baneblade's hatch and frantically beckoned Otho and the Emperor's Champion over.

The Champion turned his steely gaze to Zacharias, and commanded him, "Remain here, Brothers. I shall hear what the matter is." The Castellan said nothing, merely nodded in understanding.

Mortis could feel the same unease radiating from his Brothers as they stood at the steps of the ruined and defiled temple, the pillar of white light towering over them. He glanced back over to Hauser, the man's face creased with worry and jabbering.

Further away in the city, he could hear thunderous roars and cannons blazing, grinding treads and armor along with dying yells and rumbling engines.

The feeling of dread he felt only intensified as he saw the Emperor's Champion nod solemnly, and motioned for Otho to return to his Brothers.

The steady and deliberate pace with which the skull-faced Chaplain trudged over said everything Mortis already needed to hear.

"We are all that is left," he stated bluntly. "The heretics summoned a Bloodthrister and tore through our rear guard; the Marshal has fallen."

Prayers for the dead and vows of vengeance were muttered, but Mortis remained silent as he listened with anticipation. "They currently heading directly for us," continued Otho, "and Hauser is led to believe that it is only a matter of minutes before they arrive."

His tone lacked the fervor it usually carried, did not promise his Brothers a glorious battle- it was grim and determined, commanding them to make peace with their deaths and know no fear in their hearts.

A Bloodthirster. The name was dreaded amongst the Imperium, towering monstrosities of sheer rage and warfare, the ultimate manifestation of the Blood God. Mortis held no illusions of their chances at victory, for even the Emperor's Champion had his limits.

"Zacharias," he continued. "I have volunteered you and the remnants of our Brothers to drive into the heart of this temple and seek out the corruption." Again, Zacharias betrayed no emotion as he replied.

"What of Falken's regiment?"

Mortis spared a glance off to the side; her 'regiment' had been reduced now to three stormtroopers whose faith had yet to burn out. She herself had met as honorable end as any, her head sliced clean off by Bloodletter as she charged in with the first wave.

"I imagine that they will want vengeance for their Commissar. Let them have it."

Mortis, on the other hand, began to feel worry rising in his chest. '_You', _he had said. Not _'us'_. Though against his better judgement, he blurted out his question before he could repress it.

"Brother Chaplain, what of you?"

Otho's gaze bored through him, looking as though he was finally coming to the part he had dreaded most; at that moment, Mortis knew what would come next.

"The Emperor's Champion himself decreed it. I must go with them- they will need every prayer and blessing I can call upon."

"I understand." He kept his appearance composed, but deep down, his emotions churned with turmoil, the mere thought that the brave Chaplain should die in a vain attempt to hold off an unstoppable tide for his Brothers more difficult to stomach than anticipated. He stared forwards, and empty pit drilling through his gut as Otho offered a few, undoubtedly final, words of wisdom to his Brothers. They were words that both he and Mortis were very familiar with.

"Remember the Emperor. Remember His sacrifice."

It was only when the Chaplain turned the hollow gaze of his helm upon him, did he realize what he expected.

"And may we be so fortunate to return the favor for Him," he finished.

A moment of silence was held as each Sword Brother bowed their head and made the sign of the Aquila in honor of the man that had led them in prayer and battle for nearly six centuries.

The Emperor's Champion strode over silently, faceless and watching over them like a statue standing guard over a temple.

"Hauser has made his final preparations. We are ready to move," he said.

Otho nodded, but not before adding, "I understand. But I wish to have one final word with one of my Brothers, if you would allow me so."

Mortis' twin hearts thundered, and his breathing became labored as he caught the gaze of the Chaplain. His eyes watered, and for a moment he thought he would burst into tears then and there.

"Very well. We shall depart in five minutes; I trust that you will keep this short."

"My thanks."

Zacharias wordlessly motioned for the rest of the Sword Brethren, as well as the only trio of stormtroopers that had managed to survive the hellish slog to the temple to follow him; he did not need to clarify that the same orders the Champion had given applied to Mortis as well.

And then he was left alone with Otho, just the two of them in a desolate battlefield, exactly how the Chaplain had found Mortis nearly two and a half centuries ago. Only now, he was no longer a child, and proudly bore the same colors as his savior.

For all the differences though, he felt as weak and broken as that fateful day he first laid eyes upon his Father.

"Mortis." He swallowed a lump in his throat, the crumbling dam holding back his emotions groaning with exertion.

"Yes, Father?" This was how they always spoke in private, from the time he had completed his training as a neophyte until now- father and son, even if only in spirit, and Brothers in battle, sworn to fight and die alongside each other.

The dam finally broke and he let out a soft whimper, tears flowing down his scarred cheeks as he pulled Otho into an armored embrace, the Chaplain placing a firm gauntlet on his shoulder.

"We live only to serve the Emperor," he said, steely and determined, commanding. "We fight in His name, we fight for His honor, and we, all of us here today, have done Him proud."

"I-…I- kn-know," he managed to stammer out, but Otho continued.

"But I want you to know that you have done _me_ proud as well."

The wall shattered, and heavy sobs began to wrack his armored frame. _We live only to serve. Our duty is to the Emperor, to humanity. _But Otho was right- there was something beyond merely duty that had always driven him, the joy that filled him in the rare occasions he saw a smile grace the Chaplain's unhelmeted face when he recited a prayer perfectly as a child, his roars of approval as he pinned down his sparring opponent triumphantly- he _had_ done him proud.

"Carry your head high Mortis, and may we meet again in the afterlife." He released him, and Mortis sucked in a breath, composing himself as he gave as dignified of a reply as he could.

"Goodbye, Father."

Otho unclipped a small book from his belt, the glorious and golden Imperial Aquila blazing upon its leather cover like a second sun. Mortis accepted the gift with trembling hands, recognizing it as the prayer book, the anthology Otho had compiled on his own.

"Goodbye, Mortis. The Emperor protects."

**0-0-0**

**_Like thunder from the sky,  
Sworn to fight and die!  
We're warriors, warriors of the World!_**

**0-0-0 **

The tears threatened to return as he stood by the side of Ulfric, tall and proud, his hands resting on the pommel of the claymore whose tip he rested on the ground. The crowd's bombastic cheers and praise for 'The Slayer of Elves' and 'Stormblade' passed him by without feeling, Ulfric's grand and sweeping promises to unite the land and drive out the Xenos filtering in one ear and out the other.

He closed his eyes, attempting to bring order to the chaos in his thoughts. He'd always managed to shut out that memory right before it came back, kept it at the edge of his mind; but as the fury of battle had winded down and he found himself witnessing a bitter reunion between Ulfric, Galmar, and Rikke play out, his mind wandered.

The Legate had reminded him of Falken, in a way, for the short time he had known both of them- their mannerisms, their steely determination- hell, they even looked vaguely similar, died in the same way, painlessly with a blade to the neck. Tullius was like Zacharias- reserved and calm, logic and reason trumping fury and zeal even with Death staring him down.

And so of course that had left Otho, the empty pedestal nobody else could even come close to occupying.

How bitter it was that it was the enemy who were more reminiscent of his old comrades than the Stormcloaks.

_"The Aldmeri Dominion may have defeated the Empire, but it has not defeated Skyrim!" _

A great roar of approval echoed across the courtyard, rising to the darkened skies like the acrid pillars of smoke around them. They chanted his title- his name- to the tune of thunder in the clouds. They gazed upon the snarling face of his helmet, his one and only face as it came lit with lightning in the sky.

"I think they want a speech, Stormblade." He glanced over at Ulfric, his bearded face offering a smile despite the dark streaks of blood and dirt upon his craggy face. He shifted his gaze back to the crowd of ragged soldiers, whooping and howling despite torrents of rain beginning to soak their clothes.

A speech? He was a warrior, not a leader; what more could he add that had not already been stated by Ulfric?

"What am I to say?"

"Anything, really. They admire you, respect you; give them something to remind them why."

He frowned, the idea unappealing to say the least- he had never been one to mince words. Otho was always better at him than that. _Father… _

The prayer book beckoned to him once more, the soft pattering of rain upon leather crying out to him as he remembered the rusted black gauntlets that had pressed the tome into his hands- and he gladly answered.

The crowd fell silent as he pulled it from his belt and turned his attention to the assembled soldiers.

"The God Emperor of Mankind turned his favor upon us this day, and it is to He that we owe our victory!"

He waited for the incensed cheers to fall before continuing.

"I ask now that you would join me prayer, to give thanks to our Lord of humanity for his sacrifice and enduring vigilance."

The response was almost immediate, Ulfric and Galmar stepping down from their positions to join the ranks of soldiers. "Of course we will, Stormblade."

It felt strange to be the first and only to speak, the sound of his own voice, amplified and solitary, booming; it felt strange to be the standing tall and proud before his 'comrades' rather than kneeling in prostration; it felt strange to be the Emperor's Champion.

_Their _Champion. Stormblade.

This was his fate, as decreed by the Emperor, to lead the ignorant from blindness to salvation- He had decided that his service was not yet complete.

_So long as I draw breath. __Yes, _he thought. Through fire and flame, pain and suffering, he would uphold his duty until Death itself claimed him. It was how the Emperor would have wanted it- it was how Otho would have instructed him.

The Stormcloaks never detected the stifled change in pitch of his voice as he bit back tears, only a single drop slipping down his ravaged cheek, beneath his helmet- his face.

He was their Champion. He was their guardian, the sentinel that stood watch over them, the one that would accept any challenge no matter the odds and either die in battle or triumph. He was their overseer, the hand that rooted out the unbelievers and the weak, and crushed them with an iron fist. He would not cry, he would not laugh, he would not show them anything more than the fact that he was their messenger from the Emperor, and they would either accept His word and fight for the glory of humanity and its God, or die like the rest of the heathens.

And he would not shirk from his duty.

**0-0-0**

**_If I should fall in battle, my brothers who fight by my side,  
Gather my horse, and weapons; tell my family how I died,  
Until then I will be strong- I will fight for all that is real,  
All who stand in my way will die by steel!_**

**0-0-0 **

His vision was blurred, swimming with visions of blood and flashes of fire- his legs were inflamed, a gaping hole had been punched through his shoulder, his second heart pumping furiously to take the role of the shriveled and crisp wreck of the first- he was going to die.

The Obliterator, a titan of warped flesh and twisted metal welded together stood as the last obstacle between him and the target, the living arsenal of weapons lumbering forth towards him, his own chainsword still feebly embedded in its exposed back and slowly being swallowed into the maroon lumps.

Its face, half of it blasted into bloody tatters twisted into a garbled snarl as the barrel of its assault cannon whirred to life, spinni-

The bright pillar of glaring red lanced through the battered skin of its armor, scorching the hideous bastardization of an Astartes into a molten and unrecognizable mess.

Mortis fought the blaring pain as he agonizingly lifted himself, his ribcage cracking with protest as he turned his gaze to the crumpling form of the last stormtrooper left in Falken's detachment. Her tattered green armor was stained deep red, her face mask ajar as she leaned against the steaming bulk of a Traitor Marine she had liberated the smoking lascannon she held from.

The guardsman looked to Mortis, scrabbling at her side and sliding the bulbous black shell of a melta bomb over to him. It rolled across the red-stained marble and clattered to a rest against his gauntlet.

The trooper sputtered out one last sentence between coughs of blood:

_"Kick his ass." _

And then, Mortis was the last Loyalist left in the temple. Consciousness began to slip as he gazed across the slabs of defiled marble, the pure white tower of light just stairsteps away lulling him, beckoning him to blissful sleep. The tendrils of purple light that tickled at his irises reminded himself of his duty, however, and he crushed thoughts of complacency beneath an iron fist.

_No… _

The servo motors in his power armor creaked in protest with his crumbling bones as he pushed himself off of the ground, swaying back and forth in a blood-drunken haze. He looked up, and he saw him- the Chaos Sorcerer. He stood upon a raised platform in the center of the hollow chamber, his raspy incantations distorted by the Warp and helmet speakers echoing throughout the eerily silent space; they wormed into Mortis' ringing ears.

The Sorcerer's back was turned, his staff cast to the side as he stared into the unending light, his arms mirroring the twisted claws protruding from his back as he held them out, the gold trimmed black of his power armor swirling with unholy energy.

He was Mortis' target, whatever that was fueling the Traitor Legions and the hordes of daemons practically screaming out of the Sorcerer's form. He was why so many of his Brothers had died in this bloody crusade, and he swore that their sacrifices would not be in vain.

Mortis hugged the bomb over the jagged hole in his chestplate, and began the agonizing ascent, the Sorcerer barely half a flight of stairs away.

_Remember the Emperor. _

The Sorcerer did not notice him, too enthralled in whatever heretical ritual he was performing, even the disturbingly lifelike sigils of eyes on his shoulder pauldrons entranced by the rushing tower of light. The empty gazes of the nine defiled children raised up on pikes teeming with hellish auras surrounding him would have driven lesser beings to madness, but it only further fueled Mortis' rage.

The bloody and burned-out eyelids of a thousand other sacrifices stared down at him from their rusted prisons, naked and brutalized corpses lashed across the great pillars around him with chains. Vision swimming, he forced himself to look upon the ghastly deeds of Chaos, a gruesome reminder of why he could not be allowed to fail.

_Remember His sacrifice. _

He nearly crashed to the ground then and there as he mounted the final step, his jellied legs threatening to give out beneath him. His arm screamed in pain down to the tips of his fingers, but he only clenched them down harder on the blood slicked hull of the Melta Bomb in response. The sight of Castellan Zacharias, his armor blasted open by Warp lightning injected fury into his veins, and he pushed himself forwards with bloody vengeance pumping in his last heart. If he fell now, the corpses of his courageous brethren would join the defiled bodies of the Sorcerer's previous victims; he would not allow it.

_So close… _

So very close. Close enough to see the twisted horns of the Traitor's archaic helm, close enough the feel the tendrils of light embracing him, close enough to hear the still lingering echoes of screaming souls swirling into his mind.

_And may we be so fortunate to return the favor for Him._

With one final lurch, he threw himself forwards into the back of the Sorcerer, the heretic letting loose a guttural cry of surprise as Mortis' bleeding hulk slammed into him.

Balling his hand into a fist and mustering up enough air in his lungs for one final push, he punched the trigger on the bomb.

His vision went white as the ear-piercing screech of the Traitor filled his ears like a choir of angels, ravenous melta fire enveloping his own body. He was falling- falling backwards, for what seemed like an eternity. This, then, was what death felt like.

It was softer than he expected, warm, like what he imagined a child's cotton bed would be like.

Images of a past long gone filled his eyes, the blurry faces of two people- Mother and Father his mind told him- staring down at him. Mother and Father. Old Otho standing proudly behind them, his helmeted visage etched solidly in the sea of blurring images. He closed his eyes as he continued to fall, life seeping out of the burnt husk of his armor, the faintest memories he had thought long forgotten flooding back in his final moments. For the first time in what seemed like ages, he wanted a genuine smile, happy and content to grace his cracked lips, but he was too weak to even move the edges of his mouth.

He had performed his duty, served with distinction in the name of the Emperor until now he could serve no more. It was no more than he ever could have ever asked for.

The last image he saw was Otho, majestic black armor with gleaming silver wings and skulls swimming in his vision, arms wide open as he welcomed him to the afterlife.

Ignorance was bliss.

**0-0-0 **

**_Brothers everywhere,  
Raise your hands into the air!  
We're warriors, warriors of the World!_**

**_Like thunder from the sky,_**  
**_Sworn to fight and die!_**  
**_We're warriors, warriors of the World!_**

******0-0-0**

**_Manowar, Warriors of the World_**


End file.
